Tears In Rain
by Rivven
Summary: An account of the most tragic incarnation of the Contact and Antitype.
1. Chapter 1

**TEARS IN RAIN**

* * *

**Chapter One**

* * *

The sun. . .upon his body like the grace of God. The morning dew on the grass. . .the tears of angels. The wind whispered the secrets of time, and made the queue of his hair flow with a curious sinuosity.

And then he was moving.

The blade of one hand slashed out to the left with a rigidity stone itself would envy, as the fingers of the other curled over his heart. Crouching down, he twisted to the opposite side and one booted foot came up in a kick. His fist clenched and punched straight out in front of him, even as the rest of his body prepared for the next move. He progressed through the series of motions as implacably as a river ran, and just as fluidly.

At the last, he dropped close to the ground, thin frame curled into itself, amassing power. The strength of the earth rushed up through the soles of his feet, burned in the muscles of his calves, his thighs. It filled the depths of his stomach, and forced the air through his lungs. A yell exploded from his throat, a rising crescendo that accompanied his body upwards as his legs uncoiled and thrust off the ground.

His right leg lashed upward and outward with savage force, the left bending at the knee and tucking in close to his body. Balance perfect, he landed as the after effects of his cry were still fading slowly away in the faint mist of dawn.

"What are you doing?"

And with that, he was simply a gangly young boy, bouncing about through the tall grass like a rambunctious jack rabbit. A boy who had barely avoided falling flat on his bottom after executing a movement that looked more like a man writhing midair in the throes of death than a great warrior launching a flying sidekick.

Still hunkered down into a squat, the youth craned his neck back to peer behind him. There, leaning forward over the rough hewn rails of a fence, he beheld an inverted view of a girl who looked as if she might match his thirteen years in age. A vivid, upside-down smile painted color on a face otherwise far too pale.

Embarrassed beyond all belief, the boy's neck snapped around like a parrot's and he flung himself in a tight circle to face her while at the same time scrambling upright. And once again, he barely avoided sprawling in the dirt.

The girl gazing back at him was slight and slender. Dressed in a simple cotton frock and light canvas shoes, the latter appeared already soaked with dew. Coppery hair that looked somehow as if it had been. . .buttered? fell around a delicate face with a tiptilted nose. And the most marvelous sapphire eyes he had ever seen sparkled merrily back at him.

"Hello." The smile warming her face deepened. "I apologize for disturbing you. So...what _were_ you doing?"

He did not reply. _Could_ not. He simply stared at her, blinking dumbly. The girl cocked her head in feigned speculation when he did not answer. "Was it. . .hmmm. . .some type of dancing?" The corners of her eyes crinkled with a teasing smile, but he was not one much for jokes and did not catch on. Tanned skin reddening to match sunrise, he shook his head frantically. "No! No. . .Uh, I'm doing. . .trying to do. . .um, martial arts." He trailed off into mortified silence, his lofty opinion of himself dissolved.

Clearly sensing his discomfort, she assured him: "It looked very good."

The girl extended fingers as pale as her face over the fence. "My name is Elehayym. But my friends call me Elly." The boy took the hand gingerly, grasping it for only a heartbeat before pulling away. He barely concealed another blush at the thought of such soft skin feeling the sweat and dirt ground into the lines of his palm. "Elehayym. . . ." He got no further.

"_Elly_," she corrected patiently. "Because we are going to be friends, aren't we? I don't really know anyone else here."

Seizing upon that statement as one would a lifeline, he asked, "Did. . .you just move here then?"

"Yes. We used to live on the outskirts of Ishtar, but. . .I am ill often and not very strong. Nineveh Monastery is said to have the best clinic and doctors in Nimrod, so my father moved us here. We arrived only a few days ago, and I'm here for my first examination." The boy unconsciously moved his eyes toward where he knew the monastery lay, just over the hill. The next moment, his attention was snapped back to his companion as she widened her eyes and shook her head in gentle self-deprecation. "Look at me, carrying on like this when I haven't even asked your name! Well then, what is it?"

His face twitched in chagrin, and he found himself strangely reluctant to answer. He was saved the necessity when a brusque voice filled the air.

"Elehayym! El-e-_hayym_! Where are you?"

A bun of chestnut hair rose over the horizon, succeeded by a sturdily built woman in dress and apron. Her eyes sighted immediately on Elly and she advanced toward the pair near the fence. "What in the name of the Lord are you doing over here? And standing about in this wet mess with those shoes! You will catch your death and then all of your father's trouble will be for nothing." That formidable head shook in a combination of irritation and disbelief." Come along, the doctor is waiting!" During the entire tirade, the woman had not appeared to so much as note the boy's existence. All she gave him now was a look of distaste before she was hauling the girl about and marching her back toward the hill.

Despite the rough handling, the girl peered over her shoulder at him and her eyes were inquisitive. And suddenly he found his mouth opening and words streaming out. "Lacan. My name is Lacan!" His face flushed, but Elly smiled at him until the woman's relentless stride necessitated she look where she was going.

Lacan stood there a very long time, watching the crest of the hill, before finally turning toward his own house, over a ridge in the opposite direction.

He remembered the smile.

* * *

Written August 2000.

Xenogears © Square-Enix.


	2. Chapter 2

**TEARS IN RAIN**

* * *

**Chapter Two**

* * *

"Is it as big as they say it is?"

The young man being addressed waved his hand in languid dismissal. "Is anything _ever_ 'as they say it is,' Lacan?" He grinned as his young friend shot him a glare and then fluttered his hand again, this time in a soothing manner. "It's bigger, actually. Absolutely huge, especially compared to this place."

Lacan sat back on his wooden perch, marginally placated. He had been chopping logs on the stump not long before and the axe lay abandoned rather carelessly on the ground nearby. The boy was devoting all of his attention to the person who lounged against the tree before him.

"What did you do while you were there? Did you go to one of those taverns they. . . ." He searched hastily for another expression and didn't come up with much. ". . .you always hear about? Quit taunting, Krelian, and just tell me already!"

Krelian smiled again and expertly flicked a strand of blue hair from his eyes. "It's not as if I spent my whole time in Nisan left to my own devices, you know. We _were_ there to escort his Lordship, not to paint the town red. But, yeah, I did get to see a few of the sights." He donned a look of supreme smugness and crossed his arms.

"Lacan! Are you done chopping that wood yet?"

Lacan answered the voice drifting from an open window without taking his eyes off of his friend. "In a bit, Dad!" And then to Krelian, "_Well?_"

"Yes, I went in some of the taverns. They're okay, but not all that _they_. . . ." He winked. ". . .make them out to be. And I checked out the shops. By the way, I got you something, so remind me to bring it over next time." The young man tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Let's see, what else. . . . Oh yes. . .the place is crawling with women! Too bad you couldn't come along, Lacan. Thought you're hardly old enough to properly appreciate it!"

The boy scowled. But only for a moment. For then Krelian took on a thoughtful, grave expression; the kind that said he was deciding whether or not to share something substantial. . .and was not sure whether Lacan was old enough to treat it with the proper gravity. Lacan tried to look suitably astute and attentive.

He evidently passed inspection, for Krelian darted his eyes furtively toward the window, before leaning forward and dropping his voice. "There were Recruiters there. I was passing by the Central Square and heard them speaking. Huge crowd." Lacan's eyes widened in amazement and he too leaned forward. "What were they saying?"

"What they always are said to. Come to Solaris, work for us. . .and know such marvels as you cannot possibly imagine. Of course, it took them a lot longer to get all of that across. You have never heard anyone so damn long-winded. And all of that isn't even the good part. _Then_ this fellow from the throng got into it. And not in what you would term an 'encouraging' manner. He never said, but there was just something about him. . .I'd swear a month's pay he was from Shevat." Krelian paused for a moment to acknowledge his friend's dropped jaw and then continued.

"He wasted no time in jumping all over the Recruiters. Asking all of the questions everyone else there was too uncomfortable to. . .or too afraid. It all led up to the real crux of the thing: what the hell do they need a big steel city for anyway? The Recruiters side-stepped it all quite neatly. Naturally. Half the people listening hadn't any idea what was going on. I'll give them this much, Solaris doesn't send out a bunch of fools to get the job done. A handful of flowery phrases, more assurances of wealth and wonders. . . ."

Krelian finally trailed off, sighing and looking at the ground before him with somber eyes. Lacan fidgeted, wishing they could return to the insouciant atmosphere of what must have been only bare moments before. And then his friend spoke once more.

"They're talking of war, you know. I. . .don't know if that's the right answer. The reasoning doesn't make a whole lot of sense. It's just that the leaders in Nisan are so damn _sure_ something is going on. . .but God only knows what it might be. Their fear of the unknown could drive them to a fatal mistake. And us too, if the King decides to lend aid. It's not the thought of fighting that bothers me. . .God, would I have joined the _army_ if it did? But I would hate to throw away my life for some spectral threat that doesn't even concern my own country. Damnit. . . ."

Lacan shook his head with a vehemence that startled him. "I'm sure it won't come to that, Krelian. Nisan is a long way away. Like you said, it doesn't concern us."

"Yeah, maybe you're right. Anyway, kid, you've got to finish chopping all this wood. Better get with it."

* * *

Written November 2000.

Xenogears © Square-Enix.


	3. Chapter 3

**TEARS IN RAIN**

* * *

**Chapter Three**

* * *

"For, my children, we cannot simply give our love to God and think that enough. We must also love one another as God loves us all; without conditions or reservations. And though this is a hard path, we must try every moment of our lives. . .or not be worthy of the title 'human.'"

The hard wood of the pew creaked mildly in protest as Lacan shifted his weight; trying to keep his father from noticing the movement. The older man would not hesitate to cuff him for disrespect and the thought of such public humiliation, in the near silence of the church no less, worked wonders in keeping the boy almost exclusively stone-still.

But this morning, the voice of Father Reglia hovered over them as a swarm of bees; noxious but incoherent, devoid of all meaning. Truth be told, it seemed that way to Lacan every time he sat here. Everytime, his gaze lingered over candles burning on the altar, he studied the dull sheen of the beeswax polish of the wood upon which they sat. . .but he took no interest in Reglia's words. The old man existed in a cloud of pomposity and blandness. To the boy's mind, someone supposedly filling others with the fire of God should blaze with that fire himself. Reglia's flame had long since been banked and even the coals sleeping beneath the ash were devoid of heat. If they _had_ ever possessed such heat.

And so, no matter the possible worth of the priest's words, Lacan could not discern them through the dust and haze of years. For him, church was nothing more than a trial to be endured.

When the sermon was finally, blessedly, over, Lacan rose with the rest of congregation and proceeded outward into the sunlight he loved far more than the musty interior of the church. The only good part of this day was the picnic afterwards, held after every service no matter what. Mother Church pulled in her children once a week to remind them of their spiritual obligations. And then the 'children' gathered and spoke to neighbors; of _their_ children, of their husbands and wives, of their work. And then they scattered again, trekked back to homes that radiated from Nineveh as spokes from a wheel.

His father disappeared into the crowd, determined to fill his quota of chat with acquaintances as quickly as possible. Lacan was left to wander among the tables arranged about the commons, regarding warm bread and cold meat with hungry eyes. So intent was he, that he side-stepped into someone next to him, jostling a plate from his victim's grasp and onto the cobblestones.

Dismayed, the boy bent to gather the fallen item without even taking the time to look at its owner. Muttering abject apologies, he straightened with the plate(though he could do nothing about the food scattered around their feet). . .and looked into bright blue eyes.

He nearly dropped the plate again.

"We meet again, Lacan. Thank you for retrieving that for me." Lacan glanced down to the miserable looking mess on the platter and looked back to Elly, his expression pitiful. Her lips twitched for a moment, before she broke out into peals of laughter. "Ahhh. . .I'm so sorry. I shouldn't torment you everytime we meet. Never mind that." She took the plate from him and discarded it on a table. "Now then, were you getting something to eat?"

He gave a dumb nod, and Elehayym beamed at him. "Wonderful! Then we can get some food together. And I'll be quite the lucky girl, to have such a handsome escort." Lacan turned bright red under his suntan as Elly took his arm and tugged him along after her.

It was only when they had loaded fresh plates down and claimed a spot to sit under a shady tree, did Lacan realize he had not yet said one word to the girl beside him. He was not a talkative fellow, and only really felt comfortable speaking with Krelian, who treated him as if he were a kid brother. Others always tried to force him to talk. . .which was the worst thing they could have done. For his throat felt as if it closed up and his tongue seemed to swell and try to choke him. Elly had not pressed him.

And so he made an effort to speak to her.

"Ele. . .Elly. . . ." He paused and cast about for something innocuous to say. "I hope your mother wasn't too angry about the other day?"

"Stepmother." The girl's voice was not angry, not hateful as many might be toward the woman with such a title. But she did give him a sad smile and Lacan's eyes mutely urged her to continue.

"My mother died, a few years ago. Father wanted to make sure I had someone to look after me, because I'm so frail. I think he cares for Jazia well enough, but I _know_ he doesn't love her. Not the way he did Mother. I would rather take care of myself, than know he married for duty instead of love." As she spoke, Elly's fingers twined about a pendant about her neck. Lacan looked and recognized it as a replica of the sign of the church, though much more ornate than the one in the building behind them. Cast in silver, the four arms were of equal length and at their center was a glistening ruby. When she finished speaking, he tore his attention away from it, only half-aware that he was murmuring: "I never knew my mother." Elehayym cocked her head and looked at him with such a level of compassion that he became uncomfortable and once again searched for something to divert the topic to. . .and in desperation, commented on the cross.

"Oh, this? It was my mother's." She must have noticed his face twitch with agitation that he hadn't changed the subject after all. . .so she changed it herself. "Do you know what it means?"

Lacan blinked. "I don't suppose I've ever really thought about it. It's just _there_." As an afterthought, he added, "And I don't think Father Reglia has ever said anything."

"The arms are white and stand for the purity of the four elements of the world. They are each necessary, in and of themselves, and they need to have a distinction among them to be what they are. But not until they come together do they have the passion of the human heart. For we are made of all four, but are also more than a sum of parts. The ruby represents that; our emotions, our dreams, and our love. It speaks of how God made all that is in this world, but that we must use our own hearts to find the beauty in it."

Listening to her, the boy imagined Father Reglia speaking with such feeling and with such words. Then, perhaps he would pay attention during services. . . .

"Well, well, Lacan! I see that you've finally been putting my advice to work! Who's your friend?"

With horror, Lacan snapped out of his daze and recognized Krelian's voice, coming from just over his shoulder. He hurriedly stood and turned. Sure enough, the young soldier was looking back at him, a huge grin shaping his features. The boy wondered if he could get his friend to simply _leave_. . .but Elly was watching the two of them expectantly, clearly waiting to be introduced. He was left with no choice.

"Krelian, this is Elehayym. Elehayym, Krelian."

Elehayym grasped the hand extended by Krelian, smiling prettily. "Please, do call me Elly."

"Well then, I'm very pleased to meet you, Elly. I'm glad to see Lacan is finally making friends other than myself; he needs _someone_ to balance out my corrupting influence. I assume you just moved here?"

"Oh yes, my family and I just arrived from Ishtar and Lacan kindly offered to show me around." Lacan, face buried in his cup at the moment, nearly choked. Lowering the water, he gaped at Elly in astonishment. She grinned back at him. "Isn't that right, Lacan?"

"Uh. . .y, yes." He fought the urge to smack the amused expression off of Krelian's face.

When it became quite evident Krelian did not intend to take himself elsewhere, Lacan sank back to the ground with a resigned thump. The three sat there in the sun for quite some time; Krelian displaying the charm he so rarely did, Lacan grumbling silently at his drumstick and potatoes, and Elly enticing them both into conversation, laughing and smiling as if no other situation could possibly be as joyful to her as this one.

When the townspeople around them finally began gathering up belongings and offspring, Krelian stood to bid his two companions farewell. At that same moment, a group of young men passed by on the hill below them, a good many of them shooting Krelian covert, wary glances. Elehayym watched them curiously and then peered up at Krelian. "Is there anything the matter?"

"I've just got a strong reputation around here," he replied hastily. "They, ah, never have forgotten a few incidents that happened back in our school days. Some people just can't move on. It's sad, really."

Lacan muttered under his breath, "He's a bully," and surprised no one so much as himself by snickering. Elly bit back a grin at the haughty, put-upon glare Krelian shot him.

"And don't you forget it," the blue-haired man muttered in Lacan's direction, voice muffled by clenched teeth, a dangerously pleasant smile on his lips.

The boy had no chance to respond, for sweeping imperiously in their direction was Jazia. She looked in no better a mood than she had several days before. Disappointment flickering through sapphire eyes, Elehayym wished her new friends goodbye and obediently followed her stepmother into the crowd.

Krelian folded his arms behind his back and adopted a reflective stance. "You know, Lacan, I do believe she likes you."

"Shut up." But he reddened, secretly pleased at the thought.

Even despite the impossibility of it.

* * *

Written November 2000.

Xenogears © Square-Enix.


End file.
